


The Season of the Witch

by plastic_cello



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 18th Century, Alternate Universe, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Violence, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-27 04:17:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5033407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plastic_cello/pseuds/plastic_cello
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Barnes was a man without a beginning or an ending.  He lived a solitary life; his only motivation to find any and all witches and kill them.  And his eye was on one specifically, but the road to victory would be a complicated and bloody one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dont_touch_the_phlebotinum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dont_touch_the_phlebotinum/gifts).



> Any excuse to write a Halloween/gothic story at long last.

* * *

 

 

"Where to begin a tale that hasn't any definitive start or ending?" The young man looked to the dying embers in the hearth unhappily. "I am cursed; I've been marked by death, but death hasn't come for me yet. That's why I fear nothing, while all fear me. I've been marked by death, yet death is too frightened to take me."

The silence that followed was heavy. Many within the tavern's walls were lax with drink; others were more aware, although the young man's words worried them. They had thought him queer at his rather abrupt appearance in the village, more so yet when he conversed for hours with the elderly Mr. Van Sickle that afternoon.

Mr. Van Sickle had recently begun to speak of mysterious shadows in the woodland beyond the village's perimeter. He had stopped anyone who would listen about a tale of a tall cloaked figure, whom brought the scent of sulfur with them. The number of ravens had also become a concern of the old man's as well, and in turn caused many in the community to gossip and speculate on what this might mean.

Word had clearly traveled. It was only the explanation on why the young man before them had made such a long journey to them. The village was not one for many visitors if not of relation to one family or another. So his appearance was unprecedented, perhaps even a bad omen which seemed to be supported by his sinister words.

"When the nights grow longer and the trees shed their leaves, it starts once more." The young man raised his stein to his lips, but did not drink from it. "Early October, always,"

"Always what," a gangly youth asked sharply.

"The season of the witch, of course." The young man then took a drink at long last. "Surely, you've noticed some unexplained things during this time of year. I wouldn't be surprised if you've lost livestock even women and children come October."

Something akin to terror gripped the room and its occupants. October did bring an unusually high number of deaths and disappearances. No one thought anything of it. Children played on the edge of the wood for much of the year. Everyone had suspected that the disappearances were lent to foolishness or animal attacks, perhaps both even.

The deaths had been explained away by malady and the cold. Death frequently struck folk when they were defenseless; it had always been a way of life. But it was only until the young man drew attention to the peculiarity of the season that the men took notice and thought twice about it.

Setting down his stein on the splintered table, the young man surveyed each one of the tavern's occupants. He must have seen horror and disbelief on their faces, although it didn't explain why he smiled in return. His smile was thin but sharp, almost amused in its own right.

"You may choose not to believe me; other men have done the same. It matters not to me. Because the truth is still there if you choose to believe it or not; your opinion of me holds very little weight to me. I know what I've seen; I've met many of Satan's whores before. And I've ended everyone I've encountered, but the one who lingers beyond your village, unfortunately."

Whispers broke out anew amid the tavern's occupants. Speculation and disbelief were key points of conversation, and they soon grew heated in ways that they do when men are frightened and inebriated.

"What's to say you aren't a witch?" a burly, wind-beaten man asked from the bar. "You've said you were cursed! From your mouth to God's ear,"

"I take offense." The young man said, although his voice was even. "My curse has little to do with you, dear sir. In fact, my curse is to wander this miserable world alone; I'll take no wife, bear no children, and make my home nowhere. My life is of a wanderer's; it'll always be that way, so long as there are witches in the world."

"What will you do?" Another man called in a slur across the way.

The young man considered the dying embers in the hearth once more, before his eyes wandered over the other men without much regard. His dull blue eyes were circled in purple, as if he hadn't had a decent night's sleep in some time.

He was a gallant looking lad; his attire made only of black and finely tailored but visibly old. His hair fell loosely about his face with a wave of curl that never truly formed. And his body was strong with a hint of gauntness that was visible in his cheeks, but which only made him that much more striking to the eye. The young ladies of the village had huddled together like a flock of geese to witness him everywhere he had gone that day.

"I'll do what I've always done." The young man spoke again, despite appearing quite grim. "Come the morrow, I'll leave your village and head southward towards the wood. You have a witch in your midst and my intention is to kill it."

"And we will be indebted to you?" Someone else called out.

"I want for nothing. You haven't anything I desire, dear sir."

"Then why would you help us?" A ruddy cheeked individual, the village's chemist, asked.

That was when an abrupt, unsuspecting sound erupted from the young man. His mouth opened into a grin and he barked out a chain of chuckles that sounded both melodic and unpleasant at the same time. Had his laughter been genuine, it would have been a good sound. But it only brought further unease onto the villagers.

"Do not misinterpret my motives, gentlemen!" The young man spoke when his laughter died away. "I haven't any interest in you and yours! My only interest is purely selfish; I want the witch dead for my own reasons! And if I help you in some way, well it certainly is unintentional!"

The honesty of this confession brought forth an uneasy atmosphere. The talk of evil was not uncommon; witchcraft and demons were known to cohabit with the good and the righteous. There were many sermons that were preached to them on Sunday mornings on that very subject. However, no one honestly believed it until that moment in that queer young man's presence.

The young man lifted his stein again, and drained it eagerly; before he placed it onto the table's surface with a loud thud and stood with a flourish. Deftly, he buttoned his coat and regarded the men close-by with a nod but nothing more. He appeared to be retiring for the evening at long last.

As unexpectedly as he arrived in the tavern an hour beforehand, the young man left without another glance about the room. He pushed open the door and let in the cold, howl of the wind and disappeared into the night; a stranger that he had been during his first appearance, and still was with his final one.

He was indeed a man of many mysteries; a figure without a beginning or end. And the men suspected they would not see him again.


	2. Chapter One :: Into the Wood

* * *

 

**Chapter One :: Into the Wood**

 

* * *

 

 

The sky was cloudless and grey that morning. James B. Barnes departed the village before anyone had begun to stir and led his faithful steed southbound towards where the woodland lay. His breath plumed in front of him and his footfall echoed as he moved away from the creature comforts of civilization.

Unhurried, he took a well-beaten path towards his destination. The rolling pastures and orchards maintained by the local farmers soon gave way to unattended and overgrown foliage that had begun to change color; a metamorphosis that would have been considered beautiful if it didn't coincide with magick.

Witches were connected to nature; they fed off of it. For some unexplained reason, it appeared autumn brought forth far more energy from the earth and the trees. James never truly attempted to understand why. The reason behind it was insignificant to him. But what ultimately was a matter of importance to him was what the witches did when they did make an appearance.

Nothing good came with witches. Only death followed them; he had seen it too many times to count, and that was precisely why he had chosen to stop them at all costs. He hadn't any choice in the matter. No one else was willing to devote themselves to the cause beyond him. No one understood the ramifications of allowing such demonic individuals to continue to live.

Grimly, James surveyed the shifting landscape. The trees sprouted up on either side of the pathway; freshly barren branches stretched overhead and creaked in a foreboding manner. Soon the trees would take him entirely, and lead him into the wilderness that all whores of Satan had a tendency to reside in.

No matter how many witches he'd slaughtered, the unease always remained. James felt the slightest shift in the atmosphere, which made the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention. There was no doubt about it – it was magick.

The old Van Sickle had described quite an ominous tale to him. Word had spread of the peculiarities in the small village, and Van Sickle's recollections had been enough to convince James that there were witches in the village's midst.

Livestock had been maimed in unspeakable ways. Even a young boy of three had disappeared weeks prior, although after a brief search effort the village had given up hope. No one had believed any of these oddities had been related. Neither had they taken heed to the sudden infestation of ravens on their rooftops, orchards, and pastures.

Only the old Van Sickle had been concerned; he had been the only one to see a cloaked figure in the moonlight, a creature that might have been born human but proved to be anything but. James had encountered the shriveled old women, the rosy-cheeked girls, and the sunken-eyed men. He had killed them all without any semblance of remorse.

Righteous men would have pitied them. James was by no means righteous or pious, though. His motives were purely selfish, and yet he knew they would never offer him the comfort that he sorely desired. Every kill was empty, for he was a vessel that could not be filled.

"This is a lonely life, Winter." James murmured to his steed of purest black.

He had only procured his horse weeks beforehand. His last one had been killed by a chipped tooth girl-witch in the woodland of Pennsylvania. He had lopped off her head for the trouble, and he had been on foot for much of the year until his purse could afford him a good horse once more.

Soon the road wound downhill into rocky territory. Any sign of society was lost in its entirety now. The foliage was James's only company, however the loud croak of a raven somewhere above him provided a source of suspicious comfort moments later.

There was unsubstantiated information that ravens and crows could be possessed by witches. Some of the half-mad men who he had had encounters with had told James as much. But there wasn't any solid proof to validate such claims.

Certainly one had to walk on the side of caution while encountering witchery, yet common sense was also a good characteristic to have as well. James chose to be cautious without allowing fear to dictate his movements; ravens be damned.

Were his movements to be documented by the witch he sought, he hadn't any qualms about it. His intentions were of confrontation; he was not the sort to pussy-foot about and attempt sneak attacks. He would if he must, but directness was his forte by large.

The road evened out at long last, and the woodland realized itself in a cluster of elderly trees and overgrowth. James drew to a halt and tightened his hold on Winter's reins. The steed gave a grunt as he stood sentry behind him.

Warily, James looked behind him and saw no one. He then looked ahead of him into the wood. There weren't any animals at play; even the sound of the raven had been silenced by an unknown entity. The magick was alive in between those trees, even in the packed earth that the road had been forged from.

"I could go back. No one would think any less of me. Besides myself, of course," James spoke to Winter or perhaps more to himself.

Faced with this conundrum so frequently, James had often questioned himself. He would never find wholeness in murder. He found no righteousness in it either. And there wasn't any amount of death that could satiate his vengeful thoughts.

Nothing could change the past. And even so, it did not cause James to turn away. His body started forward and underneath the canopy of leaves that were colored vibrantly by their eventual deaths.

He led Winter into the wood. He was surrounded on either side, a vulnerable position to be in. He could only move forward now, and he knew that he wouldn't flee in fear. Fear was a passing fancy, after all. Vengeance was a much stronger motivator to him still.

Since he was a lad of ten, James had been consumed by a wanton thirst. He had yet to quench it; he knew it would never be satisfied, and he knew that was his curse. Perhaps the witches with whom he encountered hadn't cast a spell on him, but they had so in some way all the same.

Loneliness, unhappiness, and wrath were his curses. He should have been taken by death many times over, and yet he still lived. He still carried the burden of a boy, which had hardened him into the man that he was today.

"No matter how many you slay; no matter the blood you've spilled, you will never win." James uttered the prophecy that he'd been given so long ago, before a sharp smile suddenly spread over his lips. "Perhaps not, perhaps not ever,"

His gripped tightened again on Winter's reins as they delved further into the wood. The ground had been blanketed in fallen leaves, much of which were an unapologetic crimson. It proved to be a fitting welcome, considering his intentions were of the macabre anyway.

He would kill the witch. He would burn her to the ground, if not then he would lop off her head. And if that proved impossible, he would shoot her dead. Either way, she (or he) would be dead by sundown.

Winter let out a heavy breath behind him, however James paid it no heed. His focus was elsewhere, and towards his intentions for the witch who lived somewhere in the darkest recesses of the wood. His fear had crawled away and in its wake, it left behind that dark monster that was thirsty for blood.

When he had begun to revel in murder was beyond James. He knew his heart pounded and he felt light-headed once the body of a witch was at his feet. But he could not say if he truly enjoyed it; he suspected there was some enjoyment to it, though.

"Am I no better, I wonder?" He said aloud, as if his voice served as a comfort to him. "Is my curse of a murderer? Or have I accomplished a good onto this Earth? I suppose the answer lies only with me."

James did not believe much in any god. He supposed if there was a Satan, he certainly had a counterpart. But yet his opinion on higher powers remained stunted, forever frozen upon while on a church pew during Sunday's sermon.

Piousness hadn't saved anyone from his experience. Virtuous men and women had fallen victim to witches. And the wicked seemed untouched; the people who should have been sacrificed in fire-lit rituals were the faithless and the adulterers not the innocent.

"They should have taken  _you_ instead." James bitterly hissed, before his feet drew short.

There was a sound. It had been faint; a soft crunch of foliage underfoot, but he had heard it. He supposed it could have been some sort of vermin, and yet his highly distrusting nature told him otherwise.

Reaching for the pistol on his hip, James strained his ears once more. Within moments, the sound found him, and he slipped his pistol free of it's holster. He pointed it westward, before pulling back the hammer. He hadn't any qualms on shooting an animal if he must.

The sound became louder; the leaves were being crunched under deliberate footfall. James narrowed his eyes in an attempt to locate the source of such a racket. Witches were not so heavy-footed; he knew that from prior experience.

"If you value your life, you will reveal yourself at once!" He called out, disrupting the lulled quiet of the wood; it too silenced the noise of approach.

James's hold on the pistol was steady. He had proven himself a gifted marksman, despite only being self-taught. However, he had honed his skills much more frequently than his contemporaries no doubt.

"Have you chosen death then?" He raised his voice.

"Certainly not," someone relayed back, followed shortly by the stomp of movement.

James froze in place; he had not expected a reply. Nor had he expected to find another living soul in the wood, beyond the witch of course. So this was quite unprecedented.

Unswayed to lower the pistol, he waited with baited breath. As he had suspected, the disturbance came westbound and the outline of a man came into view in between the trees. Broad-shouldered and several inches taller, the man walked onto the road; before he dropped his bag and held up his hands in surprise at being met by a pistol.

"Please, I mean you no harm!" The man said in earnest.

"One must be half-mad to find themselves in the wood at this early hour."

"Half-mad to be sure," the man eyed him as if to say what he truly thought of James then.

Narrowing his eyes, James lowered the pistol but chose not to holster it yet. He'd encountered men and women, although rarely, who served as a cohort of a witch. What's to say that he hadn't stumbled upon one just now?

"Like I said, half-mad," he reiterated.

"You're a traveler."

"Of no relation,"

"Now that is unprecedented." The man lowered his hands a tad. "I mean you no harm. I've only come back from Boston; I've been away since spring."

"So you live in the village?"

"Aye," the man nodded. "For now anyway; I've only come back for my betrothed."

James studied the man closely. He didn't appear untrustworthy. His eyes were honest, and his wardrobe spoke of a man who had been in a city. He wore the darkest of blues in waistcoat and knickers, and his overcoat was the same.

"Why were you in Boston?"

"I'm a constable." The man looked proud by this revelation.

"Constable...?"

"Steven Rogers,"

"Steven Rogers," James repeated, before finally holstering his weapon. "You are one of the lucky ones. Take your betrothed far away from here and as soon as you can."

Steven Rogers dropped his hands to his sides, confusion paramount on his face. It was evident his absence had left him unaware of the oddities that had overtaken his village. He was better for his ignorance; he would realize it soon enough James suspected.

"What do you speak of, sir? And why would you flee the village at such an ungodly hour? Unless, of course, you are fleeing for suspicious reasons."

"I'm not fleeing, mark my words. Rather I am heading towards the unknown," James pulled on Winter's reins. "Constable Rogers, your village has been touched by evil since you've been away. I've spoken to the old man Van Sickle; he has relayed his tale to me, and I haven't any doubt that his suspicions are correct."

"Van Sickle,"

"You have a witch in your midst, Constable." He called back to Rogers who hadn't moved from the spot he had taken. "If you don't believe me, visit old man Van Sickle. But better yet, leave to Boston at once and leave this unholy business to me."

Rogers did not follow him. James hadn't expected him to and he thought no more of him either. There were far more pressing things to entertain his thoughts, and the hum of magick grew stronger and stronger as he was swallowed up by the wildness of the wood. The witch was drawing nearer and nearer.


End file.
